


Our Performance Begins

by LazBriar



Series: I Am The Lotus Blossom [1]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series), League of Legends
Genre: Gen, Prologue, Short, teaser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 02:31:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18437180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazBriar/pseuds/LazBriar
Summary: Jhin transcends the mortal stage, finding himself in the heart of Hell - Pentagram City. Death does not deter him, for you cannot kill art, you cannot kill perfection. But even a master needs a student, and the bedazzling Angel Dust has his attention - for he is another that understands beauty is pain."I wouldn't miss your performance."





	Our Performance Begins

**Author's Note:**

> What's this? I don't know. The interactions of Jhin regarding the Hazbin Hotel setting were just. . . too tantalizing. Like a fly to honey I had to write something, and I hope you like this brief teaser of what is to come. When? I don't know. However, I positively delight at the kind of conversations Jhin might have with Angel Dust - they're far more compatible than they have any right to be.
> 
> Places everyone, places!

“Art is _malice,_ my dear. Magnificence arrives from cruelty.”

_What a beautiful arrangement, this stage! All around me, the actors are prepared, and the play will soon begin! Strum the instruments, my lovelies! The choir – oh the choir – we mustn’t forget you, quickly, to your places! Smile now, everyone, smile for the audience, it’s opening night!_

Jhin breathes, and he adjusts his sights once. Once more he breathes, tapping the barrel. Once again, another breath, cold and muffled behind his cruel mask. And another, the last check, the loading of the arcane cartridge – a bullet infused with lethal magic - the final piece to this orchestration.

“Ain’t never seen _anyone_ take so long to pop the dome off some bozo’s head.”

Jhin doesn’t move, because he’s _perfect._ Perfect position, perfect stance, perfect spot, perfect targets. But his counterpart is a raucous, a blitz of disorganized mannerisms. Asymmetrical, a last-minute cast-call. He’s not _the_ star but he is a _star._ In other words, imperfect, if not distracting. He doesn’t quite _appreciate_ the value of a carefully crafted production, to know the bliss of preparation, timing, and execution.  

“Poetry takes time to write,” says Jhin without moving. “This is the _ecstasy_ of atmosphere. Wait, _wait_. The curtain is rising.”

His work was about to begin. The rooftop was quiet, but not for long. Soon, there would be sound! Soon there would be harmonious screams and an opera of death! Ah, yes! This city – how perfect! Jhin could not have asked for a greater theater, nor a more willing audience! Hell, the Underworld, Pentagram City? These names were just formalities, asterisks in his grand vision. Dead? Death was nothing because he was art, and _you cannot kill art._

“Ain’t no curtains! Just a fuckin’ window!”

Ah, again, his counterpart jabbed with brutal commentary. This thing, this Angel Dust – a spider with a _dreadful_ sense of fashion – was everything Jhin was not: inelegant, crude, voracious, _lustful._ He had no patience, no appreciation for the theater! And yet, he was _beautiful,_ a child of death, just like Jhin, a specimen who engineered gorgeous destruction, capturing so many lives in a spellbinding production of screams and sanguine.

“It is our stage, my dear,” said Jhin, voice cold, and patient. “We must make them sing!”

Indeed, to the anthropoid arachnid, it _was_ just a window. They had set up inside an abandoned building above the streets of Pentagram City, where cracked glass hung off its sides like broken eyes. These were, however, ideal hiding spots, and for the likes of a precise sniper such as Jhin, a podium to conduct his deadly symphony.

His tag-along huffed, pulling up a chair and sliding next to the positioned Jhin. “Look ya’ damn dimestore Michael Myers knockoff, if ya’ don’t start shootin’ I’m gonna’. . . I dunno! Do a line off some rando’s crank and forget I was here. I’m gettin _bored.”_

[Jhin started to whistle, a chorus erupting in his head](https://youtu.be/JdJ7jhV3B4A). Ah, the sweet songs, trapped there, always longing to be free. And there was only _one_ way to do that. He didn’t mind the antagonization of his colleague – he was just eager, after all. Jhin understood. Jhin’s heart was _fluttering,_ cold with anxiety.

One breath. Ah, a target, there they are. Another breath. A demon, a creature in a suit, head covered with horns, in the middle of the road. A third breath. Oh, they will _weep,_ let us make them cry! A fourth breath. And now, _the curtain rises._

“Watch them transcend, my friend,” said Jhin. He squeezed the trigger.

An eruption of light burst from his weapon, the sniper loosing a terrifying round into the street below. A line of energy split the air and made contact with its target, _rearranging them._ They were no longer _there,_ they ascended into _art._ A spray of harsh blood blossomed from them, crackling with lethal arcane in a display of orgasmic violence.

“Inspiring!” Jhin said. Below, chaos consumed the street. Like fleeing insects, the other demons scrambled around in confused fear.

“Holy _SHIT!”_ exclaimed Angel Dust. He wore an amazed, entranced expression, now leaning, multiple arms clinging to the chair.

Now, another.

“Another,” said Jhin. Another, he found. Trigger squeeze. Another explosion of blood and light.

This incited a cackle from Angel Dust, who was beside himself with giggles. “Do it again!”

Jhin spied a larger one, a behemoth twice as tall as his first two targets. He could almost weep – what a wonderful canvas! Ah, they would truly appreciate his art. So, again, the trigger pull, and his sniper spat a death-dealing round into the heart of his choice. _Smile, oh, smile! They can see you now, it’s your moment!_

“Wahahah! I’m sorry I ever doubted ya!” said Angel Dust, almost falling down from laughter. He rubbed his eyes which were wet with humor. “H-hey! Ha-ha! Hey! I bet you can’t hit that mook square in the head? See em’! That one!”

Jhin didn’t comment. He didn’t take _requests,_ this was _his_ production! Oh, but, well. . . how could he deny his understudy? Ah, very well, if only to inspire Angel Dust! Thus, he eyed the figure the spider pointed to, a smaller one, a demon running away from the scene in hopes to save themselves. No.

“Eventually, you will understand,” said Jhin to his target. “And you will be glad to have sacrificed yourself.”

Trigger pull. Angel’s indicated target vanished in another flower of crimson. The last was _always_ the best.

Jhin breathed. He pulled his gaze away from the scope, sated. Another masterpiece, though admittedly not his best work.

“Hmm.”

He glanced to Angel Dust, who struggled to calm down. “Fuck _me._ Where did they _grow_ you, phantom of the opera?”

“You do not _grow_ perfection. You simply are.”

Angel Dusk snickered, grinning, flaring his one sharp, gold tooth. “Marry me.”

“I’m married to the stage, my dear.”

Angel Dust looked out the window, entranced by the spectacle of chaos. “Bitch, I’ll steal ya’.”

Jhin discovered his colleague had an _interesting_ sense of humor, but it made him all the more dazzling. He could not have asked for a greater fan – observing the _ecstasy_ on Angel’s face as he appreciated the spectacular death below was. . . beauty.

“So you say,” Jhin commented. “Now, tell me about this Hotel of yours.”

 


End file.
